


12 hours and 7 minutes

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 5x21, 5x22, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Brothers, Dark Sam Winchester, Dean-Centric, Deathfic, Gen, Hurt, Minor Lisa Braeden/Dean Winchester, POV Dean Winchester, Protective Dean Winchester, Sad, Soulless Sam Winchester, Supernatural - Freeform, Swan Song, Tragedy, dead, death!fic, season 5, sick, third person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-12
Updated: 2015-11-12
Packaged: 2018-05-01 04:52:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5193017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Swan Song. Dean misses Sam and it's unbearable. Some soulless!Sam and some mournful!Dean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	12 hours and 7 minutes

12 hours and 7 minutes. It's been 12 hours and 7 minutes, and Dean still can't bring himself to look at the passenger seat because it's empty and he knows it's gonna stay that way. It's been 12 hours and 7 minutes and Dean's white-knuckling it down the interstate, not sure where he's going, only that it's far, far away. It's been 12 hours and 7 minutes- 8 minutes, now- and Dean refuses to play music because his brother doesn't get any, so why should he?

He knows he should call Bobby. When he drove off he hardly said a word to the man who is, for all intents and purposes, his father, _their_ father, and he knows by now the man must be worried sick, but he's too far gone to care. He knows what Bobby would say, anyway, something like, “He died to save the world. You should be proud of that.” But Dean doesn't give a shit anymore. He doesn't give a shit about the stupid fucking world because it's nothing without his brother. Nothing.

The horsemens rings sit on the center console, and every part of Dean aches to go back and open hell up again and get Sammy out of there, but he can't disappoint that kid again, he can't, because Sam only asked for one thing and that was for Dean to leave him there, let him rot, for Dean to go and live and be normal, for once.

It's been 12 hours and 11 minutes now and his hands hurt and all he can see is his brother falling, disappearing behind earth. He can only hear his own voice, his reluctant acceptance, he told Sam it was okay, gave permission, and it hurts because the one time the damn kid asked for Dean's approval, it was for this, and Dean just went right on and said yes. He wouldn't have done it if Dean had said no, no, he'd be sitting right next to him, right there, going on about some case or snoring with his head cocked on the window, because he always snored, and Dean pretended it bothered him, but if Dean's honest, it made him smile, because he felt everything and more for the kid, and that sound just said, "Hey, Dean, I'm here. I'm breathing and I'm alive and I'm here." But he'd never snore again. His annoying, pain-in-the-ass, little brother would never snore again.

12 hours, 16 minutes. 12 hours and 16 minutes without his brother. Dean waits for this to be a cosmic joke, for Sam to just appear, laughing so hard he's wheezing, because that's what happens when he gets too excited- he wheezes. _Got_ too excited, Dean reminds himself, because his brother is past-tense now, not present-tense, because he's gone. And suddenly he's pulling up to Lisa's house and he doesn't remember trying to get there, but he's there. The engine is groaning louder than usual, as if it misses Sammy too, so he turns it off and sits, and it's been 12 hours and 23 minutes by the time he gets out of the driver's seat. 12 hours and 27 minutes and Dean is reminded that 7 was Sam's favorite number, because Sam would always add seven to the end of his lottery entries whenever they scrounged up enough money. Sam knew he wouldn't win, and had he won he wouldn't have done a thing- too much publicity- but Sam always enjoyed the sport of it.

He's at the door, and there's Sam opening it up, in his mind's eye, laughing and smiling and doing that thing he does with his eyes and wrapping Dean up in a bear hug with that huge-ass body of his, but it's not Sam who opens the door, it's Lisa, and she looks him over and says “thank God,” as if he's okay, but he's not, he'll never be. He's doing this for Sam, only for Sam. He does love Lisa and Ben and he doesn't want them to hurt the way he is, but with him there, he knows they will, they'll hurt bad, because he's poison. He knows how he'll be dealing, and he knows within a month they'll want him gone because by then he'll be a nuisance and a drunk, but he has to do something, so he mutters something about hoping it's not too late and steps inside.

It's 12 hours and 38 minutes when Ben comes downstairs and gives him a hug, and he tries to hug him back, but he can't, because he's not Sammy. He'll never be Sammy. It's 13 hours when they sit down for dinner and all Dean can see is food that his brother won't get to eat. He wants greasy gas station food and motels and diners and the stash of snacks stolen from grocery stores that sat in the glove compartment hidden in this big blue bag, again, he wants them back, no matter how shitty they were he wants them back. 

It's 13 hours when he takes a bite of salad and thinks I'm only eating this for you, you pain-in-the-ass, because his brother always nagged him to eat healthy, and now he will, for his brother. It's 15 hours, 2 minutes, when he goes to bed, and 19 hours, 46 minutes before he actually falls asleep.

 

____

 

4 months, 3 hours. It's been 4 months and 3 hours, and Dean is speeding down the highway in the impala, and he's shit-drunk, but can you blame him? He's speeding towards the empty field where he lost his brother and he doesn't care about anything. All he can see is his brother falling, disappearing behind earth, he sees it over and over and every damn feeling is exploding inside of him, but this isn't a movie- he doesn't die, doesn't slam his hand on the steering wheel, doesn't cry or yell. He makes it to the field and its been 4 months and 6 hours now, 4 months and 6 hours now of his brother screaming, rotting, in hell, and he feels like he's visiting a grave, but this isn't a grave. Because there's no body, and his brother isn't dead, no, Sam is perfectly alive and down there somewhere below him he's being ripped apart by the devil himself.

Dean falls to his knees and intertwines his fingers with long stalks of grass, and he has the key in his pocket. He can end this now, bring Sam back. and he knows it, but he won't. He promised Sam, he promised Lisa. Lisa'd grown used to the driving, the drinking, but it'd stopped a while ago and tonight Dean told her he had to go pick up something from Bobby's, a flat-out lie, an excuse. It's such a lie because here Dean is, ripping grass from the ground, but he's not crying and he's not mad, he just wants his brother.

“Dammit Sammy.” Dean's muttering, or screaming, he doesn't know. He wants a body, at least, something to mourn, because Sam deserves that much, so much more than he got. Sammy got the short straw in life, he did, but he was such a good kid. He screwed up more times than Dean could count, but so did he. That kid had so much good in him, so much more than Dean could ever hope to have, and now the kid and his hope were in hell, and he wasn't sure if Sam even knew how proud he was of him. Dean puts his head to the ground. “Dammit Sammy! Four months. Four damn months, Sam! I did it! I went to Lisa, I did exactly what you asked, but I still don't know what to do. Sam, I...” Now tears are flowing and all Dean can think of is how good his kid was. How good he was, how much he sacrificed, how much love he held in that big fat heart of his. “You'll never hear me. I just- I need you to know that no matter what you did, I can never- I can't be mad at you, Sam. Man, it's just, I raised you. I tried my best to keep you safe and I practically fucking raised you, and I just- look at how good you turned out. And I went and ruined it and took you from Stanford and started this whole mess. It's all my fault Sammy! I didn't want to be alone! I was too afraid of being alone, I wanted you back so much, I just- I ruined everything.” he's crying and pawing at the ground and he knows Sam can't hear him but he wants to think he can because that's all he's got to hold on to.

4 months, 7 hours. “Sammy, all that demon blood stuff, I don't blame you! You probably think I do! I mean, you practically came out of the womb with this evil inside you and this burden of hunting hanging over your head and you turned out so good and now you're burning in hell, and I can't even- I can't even help you, Sammy. What do I do, Sammy? I was just... a burden. I'm a burden to Lisa, too. I just drink and drink, and I don't know how to stop because it hurts so bad. It just...” Dean's still talking and Sam's not responding and all Dean wants is a body, at least. He wants to see Sam's God-awful hair, see his eyes, eyes green as grass, gold as the sun, brown, like fresh sod. He wants to hear his voice, see his laugh, but he knows he never will again, he just wants it so much, more than anything.

It's 4 months and 10 hours when he falls asleep just over the place where his brother jumped, and 4 months and 23 hours when he drives off back to Lisa's, grass stains turned his hands to green and the knees of his jeans to a soft blue.

 

______

 

 

It's been 8 months and he's still a drunk. Still, he tries, to free Sam. Sam, smile fading from Dean's memory so Dean clings to pictures but they aren't as real, aren't as genuine. Everything reminds him of his brother, kids screaming down the street and bikers and mailmen and airplanes flying high. Everything. And it hurts so bad because his brother is underground and there isn't even a body, and all the damn kid's left behind is his reckless, drunk brother and a suitcase and a broken computer. It's a wonder Lisa lets Dean stay, but she does, and Dean loves her but not the way he loves his kid, never the way he loves his kid. Every morning when he wakes up, all he can think of is Sam, and at night it's the same. Nothing feels right, anymore, but he keeps living and staying because it's what Sam wanted, and he can't be alone again, he just can't.

 

He loves Ben, too, and tries to raise him, in a way he could never raise Sam. It hurts even worse, because Dean raised Sam the way he did and yet, still, Sam got out of the life, he was free, and Dean just dragged him right back in. Sam could be happy, at peace, two kids and a big blue pool that he'd have to clean once a week because of the big oak tree shedding it's leaves just into the water, and he'd be alive, and he's not now and it's all Dean's fault. Sam's in hell, and it's all Dean's fault. He imagines if Sam showed up, if Sam saw him the way he is. He'd probably laugh, because Dean was always the one who said no picket-fences, no apple-pie life, no minivans, yet the way things have turned out, Dean's building picket fences for himself and for the neighbors, driving Ben to soccer every other day in a white Toyota. Sam would probably call him a soccer dad. The thought makes Dean smile but it's still been 8 months and he still hasn't seen Sam's smile or heard his laugh, so he listens to a voicemail, years old, every day. It's short and pointless, and Sam's voice is an octave higher, just telling Dean the facts about some stupid wendigo case, but he likes to listen and pretend he's working the case too, even though he knows how it ends. It's been 8 months, and it hurts worse than ever.

 

______

 

It’s been one year, exactly, and Dean is done. He's tired and he's done. He's seeing cases where there aren't cases because he's so desperate to do something, to act, because now he knows Sam is gone and now he knows Sam won't come back. He can't, Dean has to give up, but it's so hard. Every time he hears his name, he thinks it's Sam talking, and when he passes the library he's a fucking goner, crying into the arm of his shirt. One year and he hears a sound and he winds up in an old cabin and suddenly yellow-eyes is there, and his head hurts, and all he can think is, no, Dad killed him. He tried to kill him because he put that blood into his brother's mouth, he killed his mom, he forced us into this life. But it doesn't work and the world goes black and he's calling out for Sammy again, as if his brother will hear him, all the way from hell.

One year, 2 days, 9 hours, and Dean wakes up in an awful, dirty, greasy motel room, the kind of room he's used to. He breathes it in, and thinks, _maybe I'm back in time_ , because Sam is there. And the words resonate through his brain, _Sam is here, Sam is here, Sam is here._ And Dean pushes himself up and makes a sound like a wounded puppy, a confused, wounded, puppy, he ran away and he's coming back home but something about his home is different, so different. Sam gives him a smile, and he knows then that this has to be some kind of poison, some kind of vision, because Sam wouldn't smile like that, not after being stuck in hell, no, Sam wouldn't be here at all.

“Hi, Dean.” It's Sammy's voice, and it sends a painful joy down his spine, because he thought he would never hear it again, but he knows it can't be real.

“Sam?” And his voice cracks and he wants to cry and curl up in a ball, because this is the cruelest joke of them all.

“I was expecting, I don't know, a hug, a splash of holy water in the face, something.” Something about his voice is different. There's no feeling behind it. The usual soulful-ness of his voice is gone, like his voice doesn't fit the Sam Dean knows, the Sam Dean's been waiting for, looking for, aching for. It has to be fake, has to be, but it doesn't feel fake, and Dean would know, Sammy looks just like Sammy, and the smell of the motel is authentic and real and disgusting. He doesn't know if he wants it to be real, anymore, so he just stares as his brother pours holy water on himself, cuts himself with silver. He gives Dean a smile, but Dean just stares with wide green eyes, too scared to believe.

“So I'm dead?” he asks, “This is heaven?” Sam doesn't respond, just gives Dean a smile, but it's not Sam's smile. It is Sam's, really, he's seen it before, but it's his fake smile, he's never smiled that smile at Dean. He saved the real ones for Dean, and all this time Dean's been wanting to see Sam's smile, but he doesn't want to see that one, he wants to see the real one, the one that made his pain-in-the-ass little brother look like a total dork, the one that could light up the whole wide world. The fake smile's like a kick to the gut, but it's a smile and Sam insists it's really him and goes on about some stupid fucking case he's been working and Dean just has to hug him because he's there, he's really there, and right then he doesn't care what's wrong with him because he's moving and he's hardly hurt and he's alive. But then he remembers Sam falling through the ground, and sees this Sam now, unscathed, and has to ask, “How long have you been out?”

And Sam hesitates but when the words come off of his lips it hurts like hell- no, not like hell, because only Sam knows what hell is really like- but the words “Almost a year.” twist his gut and Dean is so angry. Dean is so angry, but he's only angry because Sam is back and he can feel things again, time is slowing and everything is so much more real, but Sam's been back for a year and still he hadn't come, hasn't said hello, hasn't done a damn thing. The words are so empty and Dean knows Sam's not there, and it's been a year, 2 days, and 11 hours when he turns his back on his brother, he can hardly look at him.

It’s been a year, 2 days, and 11 hours, and he knows Sam isn’t really back.

______

A year, one month, and a day, and Sam's broken, Dean knows. Dean knows his brother like he knows himself- more, even- but now, he's not sure he knows Sam at all. He can hardly bring himself to ride in the same car as the kid- or man, Dean supposes, because only his Sammy could be called the kid, as that was a term of endearment and something this thing doesn't deserve. It almost makes Dean miss that shitty car Sam was driving when Dean found him, but it's broken now and Dean's gotta drive cross country with the thing that's in his brother’s body. He tells Bobby, but Bobby's busy and overwhelmed and he hardly pays attention, says,  “I’ll look into it.”  But Dean knows he won't. 

It’s the simple things that throw Dean off, the simple things that make the pain as bad as before, that make him want to run back to Lisa and hide. It’s the lack of sync, the awkward pause in conversation where words used to flow, the absence of emotion or annoying-ass chick flick moments that Sam seemed to need, to crave. He doesn’t sleep during long car rides like before, doesn't snore, and his big wide smile doesn’t give way to dimples anymore, instead it’s the fake smile Sam wears, and Dean can’t stand it. Whatever's going on, Dean's scared, and sad, and alone. Cas isn’t answering prayers, anymore.

A year, one month, and a day later, and Dean never feels more alone than when he’s with him brother.

 

_____

 

A year and 6 months and Death is holding a big glowing blue thing, says it's a soul, and he’s reaching towards Sam. Sam’s flinching, pushing back, looking at Dean with eyes that are empty but somehow full of fear, the look that usually threw Dean forward, screaming. Everything feels wrong, Cas's warning and that look, that fucking look, that Sam is giving him through those big eyes of his, and Death himself, so close to his brother he casts a stone-cold shadown over his skin. Bobby stands behind him and he’s trying to reassure Dean but Dean can’t focus because even though it’s not really his brother, it is his brother’s voice that’s crying out for him, for help, as Death’s hand moves closer to his chest.

A year, 6 months, and 3 minutes, and Sam is pushed back on the platform, his eyes closed, serene, and Death is packing up and then, in a blink, Death is gone, and Dean’s running to Sammy and he’s pressing his hand to his brother’s and checking for a pulse and it’s there. He nods and a tear flows down his face, because the year, 6 months, and 3 minutes have been worth it because his brother is breathing, not burning, and he’s up here on Earth with him. Dean falls to his knees and his voice cracks as he grips Sammy’s hand and whispers, “You better wake up, Dammit.”

A year, 6 months, 10 minutes, and Bobby’s hands are unstrapping Sam from the bed, but he still hasn’t woken up. Bobby’s adjusting the blanket and adding more, as if he knows Sam’ll wake up, and when he does he knows he’ll be cold. He transfers Sam’s body to a bed, and Dean rests his hand on the wall, hardly managing to keep himself standing, waiting for Sam to magically recover like he always does, like he always has, because he is strong, stronger than anyone Dean knows. But he doesn’t, and Bobby grabs Dean’s shoulder and mutters, “It’s not gonna help to stand here and watch.” And the words sting because that’s what Dean wants. Dean wants to sit and wait because Sam is the most important, he's all Dean has, and if he doesn’t make it, at least Dean can see him breathe before he dies, at least Dean can be there and hold his hand and breathe right along with him.

“I want to stay. If he can hear us, Bobby, I-“

But Bobby cuts him off, saying, “He can’t Dean. It’s up to him if he lives or not, not us.”

And Dean can picture the wall in his head crumbling. He can picture walking downstairs and checking his brother for a pulse and not finding one, because of that Goddamn wall, but he follows Bobby upstairs and leaves a note on Sam’s pillow, preparing himself to drink the next few days away, stayed upstairs where he doesn't have to look at the too-still body of his brother. He doesn’t want to look, because it’ll look like he’s sleeping, but this isn’t sleeping. This is the equivalent to years of torture being pushed to the back of his mind and Sam deciding if he’s ready to face the world, to face Dean, again. If Dean looks back, he’ll see little Sammy, hopping into bed in his pajamas, clutching to Green Eggs and Ham, Sam’s first book,a book Dean gave to him and read to him each and every night for a full year. He’ll laugh a little and think about how he both hates and loves himself for giving Sam his first book. When book-Sam would appear on the pages, saying “Sam I am,” Sam would always giggle and point to himself and yell, “Sam I am!” and Dean would always ruffle his brother’s hair because he had no idea about anything in the world yet and Dean wanted to keep it that way. If Dean looks back, he’ll Sam hopping from bed, glasses askew, running towards the table to study, last minute. He’ll see Sam waking up in the front seat of the impala, a plastic spoon atop his tongue, and that picture he took. If he looks back, he’ll see the one time Sam didn’t wake up. The one time he'd been knifed through the heatt, and he was dead, completely dead. He didn’t wake up then, not naturally, anyway. Not the way Sammy does. Dean’s taking the steps two at a time and by the time he reaches the top he’s both smiling and crying and he has to get away so he grabs a bottle and he chugs. Bobby tells him to sit down and Dean does and he’s drinking his second bottle already and everything is slurred.

It’s been a year, 6 months, and 3 hours, and Dean shakes his head and swallows a big gulp and he’s not even completely aware of what he’s saying, only that his body is shaking and Bobby looks scared to hell. He brings another bottle to his lips but Bobby stops him with a firm hand, his eyes wide and bloodshot, and mutters something like, “I can’t lose you too, boy.” And Dean tries to say _sorry_ , or _you haven’t lost him yet_ , but instead he throws down the bottle in a fit of anger and waddles to his room, falling sound asleep on the floor.

A year, 6 months, 2 days, 5 hours. Dean’s downstairs and Bobby's pretending as if nothing happened. Dean grips Sam's hand and it’s warm and it sends a shot of relief through Dean’s body because he’s alive, he’s breathing and he’s alive. His emotions are back now that Sam’s back and some of them want to go back to Lisa because he does love her, but here with Sam is where he belongs, he knows that. “Sam?” He can hear the lameness of his own voice, hear every ounce of hope in it fall and crackle like the wall inside of Sam. “Can you hear me?” And suddenly there are tears in his eyes and he remembers saying ‘no chick flick moments’ and he laughs a little to himself. “Look what you’ve done to me Sammy. You’ve got me crying and blabbering.” But Sam doesn’t respond. Dean isn’t expecting him to. Dean raises to his feet and kicks a beer bottle across the floor. He’s angry and afraid so he’s yelling gruffly when he says, “Come out Cas! Come out and fix him, you son of a bitch!” And with a fluttering of wings Cas is there and its been a year, 6 months, 2 days, and 6 hours when Cas says what was expected, that it’s all Dean’s fault and Sam most likely won’t wake up, and by the time Dean works up something to say, Cas is gone and there is nothing in the room but himself and his dying brother.

A year, 6 months, 9 days, and Dean is done, he’s so done, but he’s acting it up for Bobby because he has to.

It’s a year, 6 months, 9 days, and a minute when a sound catches his attention and he whips around and it is, it’s Sammy. Everything comes rushing back and he’s thinking how long it was without him and how long it was walking with his soulless corpse and this is Sammy. He’s strong and he made it through, his Sammy made it through. Then Sam’s arms are around him and every emotion is rushing back and he can hardly hug the kid he loves him so much, and he’s back, he’s really back. He lets go but the hug still lingers and Sam moves on to Bobby and Dean can’t help but notice his smile and think maybe he doesn’t remember anything at all, not even the soulless stuff. He’s glad though, because Sam can’t scratch that wall, Dean can’t lose him again. He definitely doesn’t know, because he’s asking for a sandwhich, and after a year, 6 months, 9 days, and 5 minutes, all Dean can think is, _a million sandwhiches for you, Sammy, as many sandwhiches as you want._


End file.
